Everyone and their dog has been asking me how my Dad is doing. Seriously, the dogs want to know, too. Probably because my Dad is the dog whisperer and they all love him immediately. Whereas they kind of hate me sometimes because I can’t hold back and then I get all up in their smooshy little faces and hug and kiss them because I have no boundaries with animals.

At any rate, I have been getting messages all week about my Dad and how he’s holding up.

In case anybody’s wondering, you are allowed to ask him. He won’t get mad or yell or anything. And he does subscribe to the “messaging and texts are better than phone calls” school of thought, so those are fine, too.

I know, though. It feels awkward.

I mean, it doesn’t to me because he’s my Dad and all, but yeah. I know all about the awkward conversations. Had a few myself with other people. But really, just shoot him a text.

In case you’re wondering, though, he’s great. Well, as great as anyone could possibly be under these craptastic circumstances. And it gets a little less horrible some days, so that’s good, too. Also, we don’t really talk too much about feelings in our family because they’re gross, so that’s fun. We just make jokes about things until we can stand them and then move on.

But it’s going okay. All the Christmasness and things. Everybody’s hanging in there, amidst all the poop that life has flung at us this year. And we are proudly standing, covered in life’s poop, throwing life the finger.

Not literally, of course.

Well, I am.  I’m not sure about everyone else. But that’s how I roll. Flipping life off behind its back.

So, back to the point (if I ever have one, ha ha), my Dad. He’s a champ. Don’t worry about him. He’s got his team of weirdos and we’re all hanging in there together. Plus, he has two Velcro dogs, so that’s also neat.